


Fool me twice, shame on me

by Builder



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Helpful Steve Rogers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, IronDad and SpiderSon, New science bros, Sickfic, Vomiting, lots of gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 22:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “What the hell?” Tony’s voice asks. “When you said you were a little sick, I thought you meant, like, tissue sick. Not…this.” He stands awkwardly, a foot or so behind Peter, not seeming to want to touch him.





	Fool me twice, shame on me

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051

Steve hasn’t been called to stand at attention at the side of the road for… he’ll have to do the math to figure out how long. He’s fairly sure he’s only been ordered to do so twice, and both on that same first day of basic training all those years ago. In the time since, it’s been more likely that he’s the guy in the towncar the cadets are waiting for.

 

Steve feels bad when people make an effort like that for him, even though he’s supposed to feel honored. But a bunch of ROTC kids with the sun in their eyes doesn’t do anything to boost his confidence. Or theirs, he assumes.

 

He doesn’t have a good reason to go stand out in the driveway when the voice over the facility’s intercom lets everyone in the vicinity know that Happy and Mr. Parker are due to arrive in five minutes. Steve likes the kid, but in the same vaguely friendly way that he likes Starbucks and Mario Kart. Maybe he likes all three a little more because they tend to coalesce and happen all at once.

 

The best excuse he can think of is that he just wants something to do. That’s what he says with a shrug and embarrassed smile when T’Challa takes in his faded jeans and this morning’s gym tee and asks why Steve’s joining the welcoming committee.

 

“Why is there a welcoming committee to begin with?” Steve shoots back, then immediately regrets the harshness of the words. “I mean… You’ve met the kid, right?”

 

“He’s coming to work on a project with Mr. Stark and my sister,” T’Challa replies. “They’re already down in the lab. But Shuri hasn’t met Mr. Parker yet.”

 

“Ah.” Steve nods. “Giving him the ol’ big brother check.” He never had younger siblings to look out for, and Becca squirmed out from under Bucky’s protective gaze before they hit high school. He’d manage to keep an eye on Steve, though. T’Challa’s probably just as astute, and with all the bells and whistles of modern background checks, Steve imagines the kid is already thoroughly investigated.

 

“Yes,” T’Challa says. He opens his mouth, probably to ask the requisite oh-so-you-have-siblings question, but a black SUV speeds up the driveway and steals the spotlight.

 

The back door pops open automatically, and Happy’s voice carries from the driver’s seat. “Out. Now.”

 

A weak cough comes in reply, then, “Ok, ok.” Wet sneakers scramble for purchase on the pavement, then an ashen-faced teenager gets out, practically swaying on his feet. “Ugh.” He wraps the arm that isn’t hugging his backpack tightly around his stomach, then looks at Steve, then quickly at the ground. His face goes red, then back to white, then to a delicate shade of green. “Not again.”

 

“Huh?” Steve’s brows furrow.

 

He doesn’t have long to wonder, though, for the kid trips off in the direction of the trashcan outside the facility’s front door and promptly buries his head in it.

 

“Oh.” Steve recalls the similar outcome of their first meeting. He quickly drops his gaze away from Peter’s heaving shoulders, only to find T’Challa staring questioningly at him. “You don’t wanna know.” Steve shakes his head.

 

“Why come at all?” T’Challa murmurs. “For the love of Bast…”

 

“What does that mean?” Steve asks loudly, capitalizing on the opportunity to change the subject. “I’ve heard you say that before.”

 

T’Challa prepares to speak again, but he’s interrupted again. The driver’s door opens and a portly man emerges, running a few steps toward the hedge separating yard from driveway. He turns his back, but there’s no mistaking the ragged cough and slurry of runny oatmeal that hits the ground between his polished shoes.

 

Steve cringes on instinct. He swallows in sympathy and rubs the stubble on his upper lip. “Christ…”

 

“Yeah, that’s…” T’Challa waves his hand as if filling in the blank. “Close enough.”

 

But Steve isn’t listening anymore. He takes a step toward the car. He knows full well what he’ll find in the backseat, and he can’t for the life of him think of why he wants to look.

 

There really isn’t much to see, just some yellow-brown tinted fluid on the floor mat and the leather seat. It stinks to high heaven, though, sour and briney. “Wow,” Steve sighs. “I never know, is it worse if it’s kids? Or just always worse if it’s not yours?”

 

T’Challa doesn’t seem to want to comment. Steve doesn’t blame him. He does take a last breath of clean air before reaching into the vehicle and yanking out the floor mat. He sets it gingerly on the driveway, cracking a manic smile when T’Challa leaps away.

 

The front door of the facility swings open behind them. “What the hell?” Tony’s voice asks. “When you said you were a little sick, I thought you meant, like, tissue sick. Not…this.” He stands awkwardly, a foot or so behind Peter, not seeming to want to touch him. Shuri clings to the door, one rainbow sneaker on either side of the threshold.

 

“I’m sorry Mr. Stark,” Peter chokes. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, but simply throws up again.

 

“Yeah, well…” Tony trails off. He takes in the rest of the scene, his eyes alighting on Steve, the floor mat, and finally Happy, who’s sheepishly slinking around the side of the building, away from sick under the bushes. “Great. This is great. Just the front I wanted to put up for distinguished guests.”

 

“Oh, no. No problem,” T’Challa says, pulling himself together. “It happens. Nothing is wrong with your hospitality.”

 

“Yeah, just, still…” Tony grits his teeth. “Hey, sweetheart?” he addresses Shuri.

 

“I go by your highness, or hey girl,” Shuri corrects. T’Challa gives her a withering look, which Shuri returns.

 

“Duly noted.” Tony starts over, this time without an honorific. “Do you mind taking Pete inside?”

 

“Not at all. It may be a good opportunity to test out the healing nanobots.” Shuri grins. She grabs Peter’s elbow, ignoring the scared look on his face, and pulls him through the front door.

 

“Ok, good.” Tony lets out a breath. “I’m going to ignore my head of transport’s, uh, less-than-clean getaway. That leaves the car. Which you two should not be cleaning.”

 

“I’m doing nothing of the sort.” T’Challa raises his hands.

 

“Alright.” Tony says. “Steve? I have staff to do that.”

 

“Nobody should have to do this,” Steve says, already feeling bad for whatever cleaning crew will have to deal with the mess.

 

“Which follows that you should not be doing that.” Tony jabs a finger at him. “I have bots, remember?”

 

“Oh.” Steve feels his cheeks redden. He nudges the floor mat with the toe of his shoe. “So, it’s good to just leave it?”

 

“Yep.” Tony holds the door open and jerks his head, inviting T’Challa and Steve to follow him inside. “Tea? Coffee?” He grimaces. “Lysol?”

 

“No, thank you,” T’Challa says.

 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “I’m good.”


End file.
